Short Stories, Long Odds

Come, let us renew ourselves
here, with each other.
Normally we sit on shelves
and deny that we are brothers

because there’s no money
in it. The best way to know
who you are these days, the key
is to look to others, so

that you can learn a little about
you. If I am a stranger still
after all this time we’ve gone without,
then I’ll know it was your will.

I was lucky this year to see
my brother at Christmas. He’s been
in Oregon for years now
with his lovely wife Sarah
and snow dog Clancy.

As we’ve gotten older I have
come to think we look less and less alike.
I have never felt that we shared much
of a physical resemblance: My legs
are short – I’m all torso, while my brother

is built more evenly, a solid foundation
he’s worn well for most of 38 years.
My belief for a long time was that most of what we shared
was an occasional deep melancholy and
a deeper thing for brunettes.

But now I have been his brother
for every day of 30 years. Although we are
separated by years in age (and years apart), he is in
my kitchen or my office when I
laugh suddenly, or

do an impression of The Man.  Now
you can see the resemblance
more in how we act and
who we’ve become than
how we look.

On March 28, I went to the Capitol Extension in Austin to cover the Texas College Republicans state convention. After waiting outside the hall for several hours, the press secretary brings me into the room, from which almost everyone has departed. He asks me to wait in an interior conference room while they prepare for the press conference and closes the door as he leaves.

After a few minutes, during which I’ve started going over my questions, a state trooper throws open the door, hand on the butt of his gun, and asks me in a too-loud voice to explain what I’m doing here.

“I’m the working press,” I say, “and I’m covering this convention.”

He says, “I’ve gotten several calls about you, about how you’ve been out there for hours harassing people and threatening people, disrupting their meeting.”

He asks for some ID, and I give it to him. He starts calling in my license number. I tell him that in four hours I spoke to no one, save for one guy from whom I bummed a cigarette.  He asks me what publication I write for.

“I’m here for the Texas Observer.”

He looks at me for a second and then says, “I’m gonna go find out who’s in charge.”

He soon comes back with the CR press secretary, who looks terrified. He doesn’t know who made the complaint and it shows. He gives a few breathless answers to rapid-fire questions before saying, “This guy is supposed to be here.”

The trooper hands back my license with some choice words about the prank before leaving. The kid gathers himself and turns to me. “We’re ready to start now,” he says. “We’re ready for you.”

And so my first official interaction with the Texas College Republicans was almost being arrested by a state trooper, who on false reports was chasing the specter of a marauding intruder.

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In 1986, my family lived in Everman, Texas, up on a hill in a rented house at the end of a gravel road. On a cold Sunday near the beginning of spring, a knock at the door revealed Mario, our neighbor, standing on the front porch and looking disconcerted.

“Something killed our dog,” Mario said. “I think it was a mountain lion.”

Mario had a son named Rene. Rene was my best friend at the time by virtue of being the only other kid I knew in a new town. I was worried about him. My father pulled on his coat and told me to stay in the house. I followed along anyways.

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